


The Art of Acting

by KaisooHunHan76



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Manipulative John, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Sherlock, Omega John, Sherlock Being an Idiot, a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-07 03:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11614818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisooHunHan76/pseuds/KaisooHunHan76
Summary: Wide smiles, the lingering smell of honeysuckle and sun dried laundrey. Large eyes stared at the obnoxiously bright leaflet shoved in his father's large hands. Two children (a boy with a grin that took up most of his face and a girl with long hair that brushed the edges of her bright blue skirt) sat in a field of wheat. John doesn't ...no can't understand what it means. 'OMEGA'. He tried to remember what he was taught about it, the obligatory 'understand your gender' classes he had when he was six but nothing came up. Nothing. 'ALPHA' and 'BETA' come with an assortment of information and words but this was NEW.





	1. Chapter 1

Wide smiles, the lingering smell of honeysuckle and sun dried laundrey. Large eyes stared at the obnoxiously bright leaflet shoved in his father's large hands. Two children (a boy with a grin that took up most of his face and a girl with long hair that brushed the edges of her bright blue skirt) sat in a field of wheat. John doesn't ...no can't understand what it means. 'OMEGA'. He tried to remember what he was taught about it, the obligatory 'understand your gender' classes he had when he was six but nothing came up. Nothing. 'ALPHA' and 'BETA' come with an assortment of information and words but this was NEW. 

Warm hands ruffled his hair as the doctor with eyes too bright and a smile too wide , stole John. Told his parents that 'it was a procedure that everyone went through'. Asked his name, then sold him. It isn't until later on in life that he finds out why when they were driving home the pungent smell of rotten meat filled the car and he was told to go straight to bed.

 

It was a day like any other when John returned to the bright white hallway. The smell of cleaning fluids burned John's eyes and the cold, shriveled any hope that this would be easier than last time. 

"Jack, why can't we just..." a chirp rang out from beside John. His father cut his mother of with a low growl and a deep sigh.

"I want to. God, only knows how much I want him to be safe and happy. That's why..." he paused, his eyes flickered over to John's blue eyes and his slight frame, "we have to ensure that he isn't constantly worrying about his secret being exposed and so that he can live as freely as he can."

Mellisa Watson with her wavy blonde hair and red , chubby cheeks, squatted so that see could see John's pale face.

"John, shh, listen here take this one piece of advice from your mother. If you are to remember anything that I tell you it's this. The world is a STAGE, so it is only fitting that you act."

"Mellisa, what on earth are you telling the poor kid."

"I'm sorry Jack that I want our kid to pretend to be whatever THEY want him to be. If they see him as a slave, a servent. Jack I don't want him to bother fighting it. I know it's futile God do I know that after Sam. I just want him to-" a purse of her lips and eyes that quickly looked around the empty room.

"pretend to agree. Like those spy games ...yeah." His mother gave John another watery smile and then took his and his father's hand. The small family simultaneously took a deep breath and walked on renewed with a vigour and a plan.

"Ahh. You must be the Watson 's anyway I've called you here to tell you that we have found a suitable match for your omega. The Holmes' offered their son." Lips taut over gleaming white teeth and the smell of both acrid burnt rubber and cinnamon would be all that John would later on remember from the conversation.

He wouldn't remember his parents striken faces or the fact that on the windowsill there was a wad of cash.

The Holmes' turned out to be the clichéd wealthy family complete with the arranged marriage turned into love, the prefect son and the rebellious younger son. John figured that ofcourse the son that such a family would be willing to give up to such a lower class family was the less than perfect offspring.

Sherlock Holmes, with his black hair that curled into loose ringlets that skimmed his piercing blue eyes, was the alpha he was expected to marry. Sherlock Holmes, with his pink rosebud mouth and lithe body, was quite possibly the rudest person he had ever met. Sherlock Holmes , with his deductions that made John laugh harder than any of his friend ever had, was the man John had decided on fooling. After all if he could fool the prodigal son of the infamous Holmes' then who couldn't he fool.

John learned that despite his father's hopes of him not having to have any secrets, what he had was the biggest secret he ever had in his small hands. It was not to similar to acting except he found himself more at ease in his persona than he had ever felt in his real self. The fact that this character had a specific goal and had dreams that John hadn't even though my of having meant that John had no problems adjusting. Maybe that in itself was the problem.

When his teacher asked him what he wanted to be, John with his impressionable blue eyes, bulging, rosy cheeks looked around and saw the small stethoscope and saw himself for one of the few times he would. Pink lips parted and uttered the word like a prayer, like a dying man's last word, like a desperate plea for help. Eight year old John had already given his life away and now he was sealing it once again but now he had a choice.

A small frown settled on the teachers face and she looked off into the distance as little John unaware that this would be the first betrayal in the line of many sat blissfully ignorant. Along the way John began to speak in measured words and doesn't miss it. 

Days later, long enough for his young mind to forget the instance, John found another obnoxiously bright leaflet (he begins to sense a pattern) titled with the words 'The Perks of Being a Housewife' and several newspaper clippings that cursed the NHS. John didn't bother reading the leaflet or newspaper scraps and didn't bother telling his parents. That was the first time John began to act at home too. 

Monthly scheduled meetings with Sherlock are when John perfects the act. This makes going to them alot easier and he disassociated from the entire weekend he would spend there. The room he stayed in was the practice room, the lavish white bed and the cool wooden floor of the stage. Regal red eventually faded into a nondescript cream and John eagerly used ever second he could to perfect for the oncoming hours he would spent in the role. John never wondered why he didn't use the time spent alone to simply relax. 

Conversations with Sherlock often went one of two ways.

"John."

"Yes."

"What are you reading?"

"A book on medicine."

"Do you actually understand it?"

"No." What John didn't mention was that he filed away the terms he didn't know and would later on search them.

"Why read it then?"

In the distant a silent I enjoy it was unspoken.

"Idiot, John."

Sometimes John couldn't help the fact he agreed. It either went like that or it simply didn't occur at all and instead to waste time Sherlock played the violin (startling shrieks that hurt John's ears, something that the painted on smile didn't show).

A week after a particularly fascinating conversation where Sherlock described all the ways that male omegas were an evolutionary flaw, came the time for the teacher to ask the students once again what they wanted to be when the grew up.

John simply smiles, choked out the word and grasped his stomach, blunt nails digging into soft flesh that would eventually stretch and swell . The teacher grinned, patted him on the shoulder and nodded. 

He never thanked Sherlock harder in his life. All the practice paid off and John doesn't know if it's a good thing or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Years pass and John eventually joined the army under the guise of pursing medicine, a topic that Sherlock seems interested in. His eyes watery and body as open as he could get it as he cried about how Sherlock ignored him. Sherlock's father reluctantly signed the omega up but didn't expect John to get promoted or for John to actually want to stay there.

John turned twenty and then just as quickly John turned thirty. At the age of thirty-five John came home, discharged after a honourable gun shot to the shoulder and a limp that his psychiatrist insisted wasn't actually there. The limp might not exist but the pain did, a dull throbbing like the wings on a moth, fluttering every once in a while as it ate away at his muscle rendering him useless. 

He accepted the fact that he had to return to the Sherlocks. Mr and Mrs Holmes looked at him with blatantly obvious lies and Mycroft at least attempted to pretend. Sherlock wasn't there.

His ears still rang from the gun shots and his hands shook when he strained his shoulder. He couldn't sleep plagued by nightmares and he couldn't stand for a prolonged period of time but the Holmes' didn't say anything just like they didn't day anything about Sherlock's disappearance. 

Clothes laid in his closet and his bed was as messy as he had left it, the stale smell of bitterness unfurled as he sat perched on the undeniably cold bed. Mycroft came into his room. His auburn hair glinting ginger in the lights and the scent of victory coated his skin like the layer of fat that was already there, no doubt those late night midnight 'snacks' weren't helping.

"Sherlock doesn't live here anymore," he pressed his hand on John's shoulder.

"221b Baker Street."

" I'll drop you off."

"John, you are aware of your duty aren't you?"

John stayed silent throughout the whole ordeal. He stood up, swiftly nodded and packed what little belongings he couldn't live without. A faded blackish backpack slung on his shoulder and a small bag filled with his passport and toiletries. 

A sleek car was waiting outside for him and his body tensed, a finely crafted arc patiently waiting.

"I am."

"Pardon, John."

"I am aware of my duty, Mycroft."

Thin lips curled in a mocking grin. The overpowering smell of insecticide flooded the room. Killing him. Like everyone else Mycroft had probably killed in that small government position. Normal people really were insects, pests in the presence of the mighty Holmes'.

"I'm glad."

John pursed his lips, exhaled a breath of air and cleared his throat. He knew he shouldn't address the elephant in the room but John was beginning to feel cramped in the lavish car he sat in, it was as if it branded him, a dark red splodge on his tanned skin. Images of bites, insects burrowing under his skin that drew out the liquid ruby that lay beneath.

"Mycroft?" SCRATCH

"Yes, John."

"You mentioned Sherlock." SCRATCH

"Ahh... yes, John."

"How has he been?" SCRATCH

"He's been... well."

"And..." SCRATCH

"Yes, John."

"Did he miss me?" Blood poured out of the angry red spot and John cursed himself for almost stuttering, for asking the question in the first place and for most importantly actually caring about the reply.

"Sherlock is a tad bit unconventional in the way he sees CERTAIN emotions however, I think it is safe to say that he did. In his own way, of course."

John hummed and nodded his head, looking out of the window with a clearer head and cursing himself when he didn't think to familiarise himself with the area.

His eyes settled on a very stern looking Sherlock sat on a nearby park bench almost waiting for him. Purring, the car stopped in front of him and John warily stepped out being sure to keep his distance.

"Sherlock, what a pleasure to see you."

"LIKEWISE." Sherlock drawled, a low growl that had John feeling emotions he shouldn't. Light blue eyes turned in his direction, scrutinised him. Long black lashes rimmed thunderstorms, black hair curled softly perch atop a tall, lean body that was dressed in a black coat. Sherlock fiddled with the fastening on his coat, must be new John mused, and waited for John to talk. Sherlock wore a lot of black, but then thought briefly of a younger version pouting that it wasn't a phase infront of his parents.

"Sherlock."

"John." Lightly blushing John tilted his head down in a sign of embarrassment, Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"How...how have you been?" At the end of his sentence he lightened his tone and looked upwards demurely. Plush pink lips furled in an unpleasant frown. John panicked and willed his emotions to display a similar amount of happiness.

"Why?"

"What?" John was confused, that was the first words Sherlock had spoken to him in years and it had been abiut a mistake in John's act.

"Why do you act like that?"

"Like what?" John reiterated, cursing himself at how cliché it sounded. 

"Your smell changed to the appropriate smell far too late in accordance to your facial expressions. Your face seemed happy but your body language was reserved. These are all indications of false happiness. So then John, the question is now, why?" Sherlock explained like he wasn't used to having an audience (all quick words and quiet interspersed mumblings) and he looked at John waiting for an explanation. 

John knew when it was time to stop, his shoulders relaxed and his face rose from the nervous tilt he had trained himself to gain. 

"Sherlock, if this is indeed the first time you are noticing it little brother then I have severely overestimated your intellectual capabilities." Mycroft spoke up with a raised eyebrow and the smell of challenge (of hours in the library, of nosebleeds and hunger). 

"Well then BIG," Sherlock's eyes drifted to Mycroft's midriff "brother. When did you notice it?"

"From the start of course."


End file.
